


Carnevale Musain

by thymos



Category: Les, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Circus, Circus, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thymos/pseuds/thymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis are an infamous circus troupe, led by the beautiful and terrible firebreather Enjolras, who lures a motley band of performers to roam from town to town, country to country, igniting each performance with their brand of fiery anarchy.  Based on this photoset - http://thymoss.tumblr.com/post/43225778110/carnevale-musain-a-les-miserables-circus-au-the</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnevale Musain

It begins with the posters.

 

Noone knows for sure how they go up. All anyone knows is overnight, an otherwise normal town will find itself papered with leaflets that run through the streets like a a broken daisy chain. _Carnevale Musain presents the Les Amis: for One Night Only!_ the posters scream. Below the letters is an outstretched glove that beckons enticingly from the blackness between parted tent curtains; no date is given - the troupe only ever comes on a single date for each particular town. 

 

Noone knows for sure when the troupe will pass through a town. They have been plying their trade for decades, some say centuries - but they never come with any definite regularity. They may come several years in a row; or decades may pass before the familiar caravans appear in the town square. For a week before the date arrives, the town holds its collective breath; to be let out in a sigh of disappointment if the day passes uneventfully; or to be released in a gleeful cheer of anticipation should they wake up to be greeted with the longed-for posters.

 

Preparations are made. Patches of grass are cleared; days are crossed off calendars with increasing impatience. Children grow restless, to the exasperation of parents, and are sent out to play outside. There are younger ones whom have yet to see a performance, so the older ones tell tales of circuses, taking on comical airs of dignity. They impart their worldly  wisdom upon their inferiors who, in turn, listen with round mouths and rounder eyes. Adults go about with self-conscious calmness, but noone can hide the spark that dances across every face for those magical few days.

 

\--

 

Just like the posters, the caravans appear on the designated patch of grass with no warning; a tent larger than anything else the villagers will see unfurled behind it. Activity ceases entirely for that day; everyone abandoning all pretense in favor of satisfying their unbearable excitement at milling about the drawn curtains at the entrance. Nothing will happen till sunset, they know, but to stay away from the tent, striped blue, white and red; or the extravagantly decorated caravans; is too much to ask of any of them.

 

As the sun begins to dip, charring the sky with fiery rays; the people line up into a single neat line, previously rowdy children standing obediently in front of their parents, as silence falls like a blanket.

 

The curtains part.

 

* * *

 

You step inside at your own risk. You also stay away at your own risk. There is no lesser evil.

 

* * *

 

Backstage, a dark chuckle can be heard in the dim lighting.

 

A voice shushes it immediately. "Hush, Grantaire. They're coming in."

 

"I know," the first voice replies. "You'd think they'd know better by now."

 

"Come on, R. Who _wouldn't_ want to see us?" a third voice sounds from above their heads. A hand reaches down and pokes Grantaire at the nape of his neck. "Or rather, who wouldn't want to see _me_?"

 

Grantaire makes it a point to look up before he rolls his eyes. "Indeed, I myself wonder often what the appeal of a glorified monkey could possibly be, my dear Courfeyrac."

 

"Oh please. At least they're laughing _with_ me, rather than _at_ me-"

 

"Enough." The group silences immediately as a man strides into the tent. He holds a long cane in one hand and a red coat draped across the other. He glares at them from under a top hat, blue eyes glinting in the darkness. "We're going to start. Combeferre's getting them settled, and we've got 5 minutes to get into positions. Go."

 

With good natured murmurs of "Yes, sir," the crew disperses, but for Grantaire. Casually, he takes the red coat from the last man and dusts it off, before holding it out expectantly. The man turns and slips his arms in wordlessly, ignoring the way Grantaire's hands linger a second too long across his shoulders.

 

"Ready, O Great Enjolras?"

 

Enjolras does not look at him as he nods, so he does not see Grantaire slip away into the darkness, as he straightens his shoulders and walks towards the curtains that cover the stage. 

 

The show is about to begin.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras steps out from the curtain into a pool of light. In every town, in every performance, this first sighting of the ringmaster will strip the audience of their breath. His beauty is terrible, his beauty is a blessing. He never smiles. The rumors, some mocking, most fearful, said that he refrained from doing so because the sheer glory of it was too much for mere mortals to bear.

 

He raises his arms and greets the crowd. This part is always the same. Welcome, he says. Welcome to our humble circus. Tonight you will see marvels that will change you. Tonight, we will tell you a story. This story may not be one you want to hear. It is not easy to hear. You will suffer tonight, but you will also delight. Tonight, you will cry tears of rage and tears of joy and tears of despair. You will walk away different people, and you will always remember us.

 

His eyes, burning blue like the hottest flames, will scour the crowd, and every last member of the audience will feel the sear of his gaze. 

 

My name is Enjolras, he tells them, And welcome to the Carnevale Musain. 

 

\--

 

First comes Courfeyrac. 

 

He enters, trailing laughter behind him.  A spotlight follows him on his trapeze, slicing through the darkness. He hangs from one arm, the other outstretched cockily; streaking like a bolt of  silver lightning around the tent. 

 

Music flares from behind the curtains, flutes, organs, bells and violins weaving seamlessly into a tune that leaps and flirts in tune with Courfeyrac's movements. As they watch, they feel themselves leap as he leaps, fly as he flies - tossing his lithe form from trapeze to trapeze; hands grazing the bars for less time than he spends simply suspended in midair. At one point, he flings himself clear across the room and the crowd gasps, but he twists his body so that he is parallel to the ground, and poses with an arm behind his head as he winks with a wide grin before stretching out his arms to catch the coming rope. 

 

One move keeps them captivated, one move that he repeats at several points, from different parts of the tents; where he simply tosses himself spreadeagled before curling in above himself, spinning in midair, before stretching out at the very last second. 

 

"Fly with me, my friends," he calls out, as he twirls above the stage like a seduction. He slows down, swinging his body with deliberation back and forth from the rope, before launching himself straight up, looping upwards with such speed it looks like silver lace hangs from air. He has leapt so high, so fast that the spotlight loses him to the darkness for a few seconds. The audience cries out, and then he reappears, body spread like a falling angel as he catches hold of a low-lying bar. He swings to a stop and drops himself to the ground, taking an extravagant bow as the crowd erupts in stunned applause. 

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac strides into the curtains like a pleased cat, almost walking into a slight man who has been peeking between them.

 

"Jehan!" Courfeyrac exclaims. "You know you shouldn't be here."

 

"I couldn't resist," Jehan replies, smiling up at Courfeyrac with almost painful sweetness. "You were magnificent, Courf."

 

Courfeyrac wraps his long, silvered arms in a bear hug around Jehan, and places a sloppy kiss on the top of his brown curls. "With your music, I could not be anything but. Now come, it's Cosette's turn, we don't want to miss this."

 

* * *

 

A girl, blonde and tiny, walks to the middle with delicate, graceful steps, dragging behind her an enormous wooden box. The box blocks Courfeyrac's view somewhat, but he knows this won't last for long. He takes a second to admire the length of her legs, bare till the hip, where a glittery blue and gold outfit begins. Jehan nudges backward into his ribs, knowingly, but Courfeyrac simply responds with a squeeze to his arms. 

 

"What did you write for his this time?" he whispers at Jehan.

 

"You'll find out. I'm not sure you'll like it, but I did," Jehan replies. "I talked it over with Enjolras, and we're trying something new."

 

Courfeyrac murmures indecipherably back.  His act served as the appetizer; there was enough wonder in his flights that there was nothing much more Jehan could script to link with the rest of the show, so Enjolras generally left him alone to hone his act as he wished. This did leave him somewhat cut off from the rest of the troupe, who had to practise together to ensure that their acts flowed as a coherent narrative. He was normally quite content with this arrangement, as he knew that Jehan's artistic vision coupled with Enjolras' directions formed a fearsome leadership to train under at the best of times; and anyway the shows were always unerringly spectacular regardless. But after their last show he'd overhead some discussions they'd had with Combeferre,  back at their caravan. Some things were said about _revolutions_ and _epiphanies,_ and this time he wasn't sure what to expect, whether the crowd was quite ready for a completely new mode of entertainment just yet.

 

* * *

 

He shouldn't have worried.

 

* * *

 

 

But he should have feared.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are like my crack, guys. xx


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